on the airplane out to cali for my stealth kiyomi mission, i drafted that post about the yearbook mystery. the strange details fresh in my mind as my hostess welcomed me to her home, i brought it up as a strange curiosity. we sat on stools in her little sf kitchen eating the insanely delicious vanilla ice cream and lemon sorbet (lemon-sicle!) she'd made from the familiar fruit from her parents' sebastopol tree.
me: so, yeah. it's totally weird. my name is misspelled. who is going to send me a birthday gift who doesn't even know how to spell my name?!
kiyomi (face turning pink): hmmm...
me: and who has a sebastopool post office box?!
kiyomi: (face ever pinker): yeah, um...that's strange...
me: it's so weird!
at this point kiyomi's face is not only red, but also slightly shaking with the containing of a secret, her chin retreating back and down with the weight of a failed poker face.
kiyomi: okay, okay! it was me! i had skip write on the envelope and intentionally misspell your name!
aha! mystery solved. apparently, a mutual friend of ours who i'm no longer in contact with was moving out of the country, discovered my yearbook on her shelf, and passed it on to kiyomi. what, i gave it to her to sign and never noticed i didn't get it back?!
i have to admit, it was a little anti-climactic to get my answer so quickly, from the first person i shared the strange circumstances with. however, it was pretty funny to be reminded of what a bad liar kiyomi is.
case closed.
Showing posts with label mystery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mystery. Show all posts
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Sherlock holmes returns to Greenpoint
package arrives in the mail for me. it’s a couple days past my birthday, so it’s not anything super suspsicious or unusal. but we all know how much i love to analyze my mystery mail. so, without further ado, the clues…
1) there is no name on the return address. cause for suspiscion.
2) the return address is indeed from my hometown of Sebastopol. but a po box? my peeps are from the boondocks--the outskirts of this already small town. we don’t have no city slicker post office boxes.
3) what’s more, my name is misspelled on the puffy, beat up, media mailed envelope. again, not a freak occurrence. we all heard about katty joe stemarce. even the misspelling is totally common. st. marie is the way my parents spell their name. my sister and i reverted to the true french canadian spelling back when i was fourteen, just to ensure my life was a total pain in the ass. coincidentally (?) my sister took a married name soon after. nevertheless, even my parents have taken to the ‘new’ spelling. i think.
i open the package, and sure enough, it appears to be a gift, wrapped as it is in birthday paper and ribbon.
4) the wrapping paper is worn and creased, like it’s been used at least 10 times previously. this definitely makes a case for a family member. if my grandmother were still alive, i’d swear she was behind it.
5) disposal (and not reusing—gasp!) of the veteran wrapping paper reveals…..my yearbook from 1991. my junior year of high school. all the signatures are there. eddie’s telling me i’ve taken a beating for my brave sense of fashion. kiyomi talking (still!) about how long we’ve been friends. all kinds of other people i haven’t talked to in years, not even on facebook are telling me how much i mean to them. there’s an old, dead and yellowed flower pressed in it’s pages. it’s a time capsule.
6) there is no card. there is no note. there is no return addressee. i am obsessed. who the hell had my junior yearbook? and why? i don’t recognize the handwriting. amy could have gotten a po box in Sebastopol, but she wouldn’t have misspelled my name and never would re-use wrapping paper.
what. the hell? come forward anonymous yearbook sender, you!
the above photo is my most prominent photo in the book that particular year. the art club. i LOVE the description of how pathetic and non committal we were as a club. clearly i started early on in my career as a misguided artist.
1) there is no name on the return address. cause for suspiscion.
2) the return address is indeed from my hometown of Sebastopol. but a po box? my peeps are from the boondocks--the outskirts of this already small town. we don’t have no city slicker post office boxes.
3) what’s more, my name is misspelled on the puffy, beat up, media mailed envelope. again, not a freak occurrence. we all heard about katty joe stemarce. even the misspelling is totally common. st. marie is the way my parents spell their name. my sister and i reverted to the true french canadian spelling back when i was fourteen, just to ensure my life was a total pain in the ass. coincidentally (?) my sister took a married name soon after. nevertheless, even my parents have taken to the ‘new’ spelling. i think.
i open the package, and sure enough, it appears to be a gift, wrapped as it is in birthday paper and ribbon.
4) the wrapping paper is worn and creased, like it’s been used at least 10 times previously. this definitely makes a case for a family member. if my grandmother were still alive, i’d swear she was behind it.
5) disposal (and not reusing—gasp!) of the veteran wrapping paper reveals…..my yearbook from 1991. my junior year of high school. all the signatures are there. eddie’s telling me i’ve taken a beating for my brave sense of fashion. kiyomi talking (still!) about how long we’ve been friends. all kinds of other people i haven’t talked to in years, not even on facebook are telling me how much i mean to them. there’s an old, dead and yellowed flower pressed in it’s pages. it’s a time capsule.
6) there is no card. there is no note. there is no return addressee. i am obsessed. who the hell had my junior yearbook? and why? i don’t recognize the handwriting. amy could have gotten a po box in Sebastopol, but she wouldn’t have misspelled my name and never would re-use wrapping paper.
what. the hell? come forward anonymous yearbook sender, you!
the above photo is my most prominent photo in the book that particular year. the art club. i LOVE the description of how pathetic and non committal we were as a club. clearly i started early on in my career as a misguided artist.
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